


Underneath and Away

by Dulcinea



Category: Professional Wrestling, World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-14
Updated: 2012-04-14
Packaged: 2017-11-03 16:07:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/383359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dulcinea/pseuds/Dulcinea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Punk has some needed alone time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Underneath and Away

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by last week's RAW. Dreadfully written.

After the show, Punk retired to his room, away from the concerned gazes of everyone. And underneath the hot shower spray, he closed his eyes and finally gave into the temptation that had been clawing at his conscious for hours.

_Fuck._

His head rolled to the side. The back of his head bumped against the wall.

Beneath his lids, there was shirtless leather-pants Jericho, looming over his immobile body, arms and legs cuffed down to each bedpost. “You like that, Punk?” Jericho said, like he always did, with a smirk and a hand down his chest. “You like being helpless?”

Punk ran his free hand down his chest, chewing on his bottom lip.

In his head, his gagged self squirmed and struggled, the cuffs rattling. _No,_ he’d want to say, _no, fuck you, I hate you, no,_ but Jericho just smirked and unzipped his fly, drawing out his dick and giving it nice, long strokes.

“Yeah, you do,” Jericho would say, and then— _SMACK_ to his chest. _SMACK_ to his belly. “Slut.”

Punk gasped and moaned. His thighs quivered.

“Admit it, Punk.” _SMACK._ “Fucking say it.”

He jerked his cock faster, his hips jutting up.

“Say you’re my bitch.”

His teeth chattered as he mumbled, “M’r bitch.”

 _SMACK._ “Louder.”

“M’your bitch.”

“Good boy,” and then Jericho slithered down, down to his cock, squeezing his balls—Punk moaned, giving them a tug—feeling them up, rolling them with that big smirk on his face. “You’re a good little bitch.”

Then, Jericho swallowed him whole.

He arched away from the wall like he could see himself arch off the bed.

Cuffs rattled. His arms and legs stiffened. Jericho’s slick fingers push into his ass, one, two, and then Jericho’s mouth sucked him off fast, squeezing, jerking, sucking, licking, giving his balls a good squeeze and lick and suck, taking both into his mouth while he stroked his dick.

“Oh _fuck,_ ” Punk whimpered, spreading his legs, fucking his hand. “Fuck. Fuck me. Oh fuck _please_ Chris.”

“Does my boy want to come?”

“Yes. Oh fuck.” Punk’s eyes fluttered open and shut again. “Please. Please.”

“Mm.” Jericho’s eyes in his head turned into snakes. “I like it when you beg.” His balls tightened, watching Jericho lick the head of his cock, down the shaft, right to the base. “You sound… good.”

“Fuck. Oh fuck.” He pumped his fist faster, head rolling forward onto his chest. “Oh God, please, let me come. Let me. Please.”

“Louder, boy.”

“Let me come _please!_ ”

That smirk, followed by a smug chuckle. “That’s more like it.”

He came hard into his hand—into Jericho’s mouth—fingers fucking his ass hard, all the way through his orgasm.

His body slumped down the tile wall, falling onto his hands and knees. His limbs shook. His heavy breathing echoed in the stall. The spray around him had turned frigid cold, and his skin goosepimpled everywhere. 

_Fuck._ Punk slowly landed to the floor, curling up onto his side. _Holy fuck._

In his head, the fantasy finished like he always dreamt: Jericho over him, jerking his hard cock over his head, and then—“Drink up, Punk.”—coming over his face. “Drink it all up.” Into his mouth. “Come on, Punk.” Shoving his cock between his lips, fucking his mouth for a bit and then pulling out to come over his chest. “It’s all for you, Punk.” Finishing up on his belly. “It’s all for you.”

He ran a hand over his face, down his chest, to his belly, imagining Jericho’s hot come there, instead of the cold water.

_Fuck._

When he finally came to his senses, his body was cold, his hands were pruned up, and the guilty conscious had settled in good. But Punk ignored his thoughts by focusing on the mechanical—shower off, towel off, alarm on, bed—and the mantra he kept close whenever he gave into temptation: _it’s not real. It’s a fantasy. It won’t happen. It’s okay._

Punk yawned, curling up under the sheets.

Jericho’s smirk haunted him as he nodded off. 

_Just a fantasy._


End file.
